Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294) (8 page)

Mordecai smiled. “Tell her that.”

Blushing even more deeply, Binyamin pivoted and offered me
the
shitre erusin
. I accepted it, then handed it to Mordecai, where it belonged.

The older men laughed at this display of nerves, and then Mordecai picked up a charred stick to sign the document. Binyamin's father followed suit, and just like that, I was practically married. But not to Babar. Never to him.

“Elihu and I are witnesses.” Mordecai folded the contract. “Hadassah will remain with us for another year while Binyamin prepares their future home. She will wait until he comes to escort her to the marriage feast.” He turned to me, a strange light shining in his eyes. “From this moment, you shall consider Binyamin your husband in all manner except that which leads to children. Do you understand?”

I nodded, bereft of speech. I had known this moment was coming and I did not doubt Mordecai's wisdom, but the full realization of my future left me dry-mouthed and dazed.

A year from now I would be living in my own home, hauling my own water, cooking for my own husband. I would have to obey him, respect him, sleep with him. I would be expected to give him children and devote myself to them for the rest of my life.

My carefree days with Parysatis were numbered.

M
Y
MASTER
AND
HIS
ARMY
MET
NO
OPPOSITION
until we reached Thermopylae, a settlement only three days' journey from Athens. The surrounding area was nearly deserted, but an army of eight thousand Greeks had reinforced an ancient wall, blocking a narrow road that snaked between towering cliffs and the sea. Xerxes scoffed when he learned that only eight thousand would stand against his vast army, but he had us make camp and wait on our navy, which was soon due to arrive with provisions.

While we waited, he sent his nephew Mushka to carry a message to the Greeks: “King Xerxes of Persia orders you to surrender your weapons, retreat to your native lands, and become his allies. In return, he will reward you with more and better lands than you now possess.”

The response was not long in coming. Before the sun set, Mushka returned with an answer: “If we are to be your allies,” some con
fident Greek had written, “we will need our weapons. If we resist you, we will also need our weapons. As for the better lands you promise, our fathers taught us to gain land by means of courage, not cowardice.”

“Fools!” the king roared, tossing the message aside. “They will die where they stand!”

I was certain the king was right, yet I had to admire the pluck of the few Greeks who had answered so smartly. What sort of people were these? Hadn't they heard that my master ruled the entire civilized world?

We waited two days, then three, the king's patience thinning as the hours dragged by. Because we expected our ships to arrive at any moment, no one had rationed our supplies. Food and water were scarce, and the king knew he had to act if he wanted to preserve morale and keep his army strong.

On the fourth day, he assembled his front line of foot soldiers, composed mostly of foreign slaves. This motley crew charged the ancient wall, but were cut down by Greek spearmen before ever scaling it. Discouraged but undaunted, the king sent in a second line, a corps of skilled mercenaries. They charged the wall with a great deal more skill and valor, but they died as readily as the slaves.

His eyes narrowing, my master called for his Immortals, ten thousand strong. Courageous, armored, and seemingly invincible, they charged the moldering wall with swords and spears, sliding in the blood of fallen comrades as the sea thundered in their ears.

But the Immortals proved to be as vulnerable as the slaves and mercenaries. From a golden throne high upon a hill, my king watched as the cocksure Greeks forced his legendary army to retreat. The next morning the king sent the Immortals forward again, and again they suffered heavy losses.

As the Immortals bandaged their wounds and counted their dead, a messenger arrived in a small ship. He prostrated himself
before the king and reluctantly reported that two hundred royal warships had been lost in a fierce storm.

My master bristled with indignation, and for a moment I wondered if he would again send his army to scourge and curse the sea. One of the king's counselors managed to escort the messenger away before the king turned his anger on the bearer of bad news, but I feared what might happen next. He could execute his generals, his mercenaries, or his horses; only the gods knew whom the king might hold responsible. . . .

Fortunately, a disturbance at the edge of the tent caught our attention. A guard shouldered his way through the attendants, leading a stranger by the arm. “A Greek,” the guard said simply, “with news for the king.”

The Greek prostrated himself before our king. Through an interpreter, he said that he knew of a secret trail through the woods, a trail that would allow the king to reach the enemy camp without having to scale the wall on the road. He would be happy to show the king a path that would enable our troops to get around the wall and surround the Greeks. He expected nothing for this information, but hoped for his life.

My king leapt from this golden throne, granted the man safe passage, and stalked out to speak to his generals. As the traitorous Greek led the way, we moved out the next day, quietly climbing the mountain trail under cover of heavy timber. At one point we could look down and see the small Greek camp behind the old wall.

A surprise attack would have wiped out the Greek defenders, but an army as large as ours could not move unnoticed through an area, no matter how thick the woods. As we made our way over the rocky terrain, most of the Greek forces fled the area below, leaving a band of only three hundred to defend Thermopylae. Intent upon proving themselves in this attack, the vengeful Immortals slaughtered all three hundred Greeks and opened the road to Athens.

Over the course of several days, my master destroyed that city, though it had been largely deserted. He ordered his men to burn and ransack at will, and the soldiers did not hesitate to release their pent-up frustration at the delay in their victory. From his tent, my master looked out across the smoldering settlement and smiled, knowing he had finally avenged his father's defeat.

He had only one other goal, and it was personal: to continue on to Salamis and capture the refugee Athenians. He intended to lead them to Susa in chains, then set them to work as slaves.

And so we marched toward Salamis, a small island off the coast of Athens. We needed the port at that city because our soldiers were hungry and our ships full of food. Three hundred Greek vessels had anchored off Salamis, but seven hundred Persian warships were sailing toward that tiny island.

In hindsight, I realized that my master should have been content with his revenge and gone home. He should have rested, knowing that he had restored his father's honor and proven Persia's strength and might.

But because he wanted to decimate his enemy, whatever gods there be acted to teach him a lesson. Once again we encountered a bottleneck, and once again the great lion was undone by a small stinging bee.

Watching from his golden war throne on a high hill near Athens, my king sent a wave of warships into the straits around Salamis. From our vantage point it appeared as though the Greek vessels had decided to flee. But after we had gone deeper into the straits, they turned to attack, ramming our ships and leaving us with little room to maneuver. As Greek soldiers boarded our vessels with flaming torches, my master's error became apparent—his navy was trapped like flies in a bottle.

Our wounded ships—disabled, burning, and sinking—blocked the approach of reinforcements, and by day's end I knew victory
would not be ours. My king was so disheartened that the next morning he and his servants boarded a ship and sailed back to Persia, leaving General Mardonius in charge of the army. Mardonius had but one order: fight his way home.

I sailed away with my master, of course, and as we loaded men and materials onto the ship that would carry us from the carnage, I looked out over our abandoned camp near Athens. Scattered over the rocky ground lay excessive riches, chests of silver talents that would have served as wages for our warriors, the adornments of many a man of high rank, golden goblets, silver bridles, tents with silk flags and golden ropes, gleaming chariots resting askew on the ground and loaded with treasure. The sight of so much glittering waste hurt my eyes, but I found it far more painful to look back at the harbor. The choppy waters outside Salamis churned with bloated bodies, planks, flaccid sails, and so many overturned ships that a man could almost travel from ship to shore by stepping on battle debris.

Late that night, when most of the sailors were sleeping in their hammocks, my master left his cabin and went up on deck. He stood at the rail, moodily watching the sea. His guards stood to one side, and I waited behind him—close enough to be of use, but far enough to be unobtrusive.

I can't say exactly what my master was thinking, but I sensed the darkness that engulfed him. The illness or evil spirit had returned and confused my master's mind. He wore an expression of mute wretchedness, and I found myself pitying the most powerful man in the world.

To whom do you turn when your generals have scattered for fear of royal retribution? In whom can you confide when no one dares meet your gaze?

I spread my feet, balancing on the gently bobbing deck of the rushing ship. The sea whispered in my ear, the black night caressed me with a damp hand, and I felt myself getting drowsy—

But then the king turned to look at me, and my heart stopped.

“Folly,” he said simply, then waited as if expecting a reply.

What could I say? I nodded out of sheer instinct, for a slave must agree at all times, and that response seemed to satisfy him. He turned back toward the sea, and we remained on the deck for another quarter of an hour, but he did not speak again.

A few months later, the Persian army met defeat on a plain near Plataea, an area northwest of Athens. The splendid Greek campaign was over, thousands of men had been slaughtered, and the empire had not gained even an acre of new territory.

From my discreet post I studied the king's face as he received the dire news. On the day he assumed his father's throne, he had taken the name Xsaya-rsan because it meant
ruling over heroes
, a name incompatible with defeat. But defeat had confronted him in Greece, and my master did not know how to deal with an unpleasant reality.

And
this
reality gnawed at him.

A king of the Medes and Persians had failed to extend the empire. Months of preparation and toil, along with tons of gold and silver had been wasted. Valiant and loyal Persian soldiers had given their lives for nothing.

The defeat needled my master during daylight hours and haunted him during the night, compelling him to thrash and groan in his sleep.

His appetite waned until he grew thin before my eyes. Streaks of gray appeared in his hair and beard. His temper shortened, as did his patience. Musicians and actors who had amused him for years brought him no joy, neither did hunting or riding. He had always liked the company of his young nephew, but he did not send for Mushka. He spent many quiet hours in his chamber, and I alone knew that he spent those hours lying flat on his back while he stared at the ceiling.

I saw what no one else did. Because he could not express his
shame or regret, I bore those emotions for him. And I have recorded these things, because the world should know that he did not bear loss easily.

As I sat in my discreet corner with an eye turned to the couch where my master lay silent, I felt the weight of his inherited burden: for over fifty years a line of legendary kings had ruled the vast kingdom of the Medes and the Persians. My master had been the first to experience such an appalling failure.

Like a looming shadow, we both felt the spirit of the great Darius disapproving from the tomb.

A
FTER
ACCEPTING
B
INYAMIN
'
S
BRIDE
CONTRACT
, I began to dream about my wedding. Wrapped in the shades of night, I would see myself working in the kitchen with Miriam, preparing dinner for Mordecai. My fingers trembled as I lowered a loaf of bread to the table because Binyamin had told me to be ready. I didn't know exactly when he would come, but Miriam and I had spent the day preparing for his arrival. I bathed that morning and then dressed in a new tunic. As a final touch, I put on the traditional bridal headdress trimmed with gold coins.

A bridal chest filled with wedding garments waited by the door.

I carried a platter of fruit and cheese to the table and froze as I heard noise from the street. A great many people were coming, and they were shouting in celebration. This could only be a wedding party.

“Mordecai, Miriam!” Binyamin shouted from outside, his voice
stronger and deeper than I had ever heard it. “I have come for my bride!”

Quickly, lest the crowd become boisterous, Miriam helped me with the finishing touches—a pair of new sandals, a finely stitched mantle, a veil of sheer silk. I paused to look in the bronze mirror—had I finally become as beautiful as brides are supposed to be? I saw only a slim figure beneath a veil from which two anxious eyes peered back at me.

Sighing, I took a moment to give Miriam a quick hug, then opened the door to greet my husband. “I am ready.”

I gripped the hand extended to me and walked rapidly through the courtyard and into the street. At the head of the joyful procession, I walked with my betrothed to the home he had prepared. For some inexplicable reason we walked not toward Kidon's house, but toward the royal fortress. I wondered if Binyamin had taken a job at the King's Gate. Then we were standing beneath a wedding canopy while the rabbi read the traditional blessing: “Our sister, may you increase to thousands upon thousands, and may your offspring possess the gates of their enemies.”

Someone shouted with joy while my bridegroom tugged on my hand, leading me to a banquet where food had been piled upon groaning tables. I sat beside him and ate and drank and smiled at those who lifted their cups to celebrate my happiness.

Then my groom stood and lifted me, carrying me away from the table and toward the bridal chamber. I trembled in his strong arms, but tried to smile and be brave. When he lowered me to the bridal bed, I finally looked into his face—and screamed.

The face wasn't Binyamin's.